


They Could Be Giants

by LoveAllTheFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveAllTheFandoms/pseuds/LoveAllTheFandoms
Summary: Loosely inspired by the film “They Might Be Giants” where a psychiatrist named Dr. Watson treats an institutionalized man who believes himself to be fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes. In this case, John (a recovering vet with PTSD) is a fellow patient and the duo are paired up by their therapist. Unfortunately, tragedy strikes, and our main character retreats into his fantasies once again.





	They Could Be Giants

“I’m sitting there with the cabbie: gun to my head, pills in hand. Then, just as I’m about to take it, a bullet comes flying through the window and straight into the cabbie. Before he dies, the man tells me he’s being paid for the suicide murders. By Moriarty. Then, the police showed up. They put a blanket around me and I was going over the shooter’s profile. I saw John standing in the middle of the street, and I turn to Lestrade and…” 

“Lestrade, wasn’t that the name of the investigator who worked on John’s case?” I asked. I don’t like to interrupt my patients, but this young man was not telling me about something he’d experienced. This entire detective narrative was a fantasy he’d created to cope with the trauma. In this case he was replacing the first time he met John Watson with an updated telling of A Study in Scarlet. When a patient gets caught up in a delusion you need to remind them of the truth. Ground them. The only way to recover is to accept the truth, no matter how painful, and then cope with it. “William, you met John the last time you were hospitalized. I introduced you to each other.”

“It’s Sherlock,” he insisted, running a hand through his hair. William Scott Sherlock Holmes (check) was laboring under the delusion that he was a modern-day version of Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional detective. His mother had been Doyle’s number one fan. She named both her two boys after the Holmes brothers. They were divorced a month after Sherlock was born. 

xxxxxx

“We grew up hearing bedtime stories involving our namesakes. William ate it up,” the older sibling had explained when he first came to me. “Mum would put these notes in our school lunches. Make every day an adventure. He and Mummy would play Cludeo for hours. They’d make up mysteries to solve. It was all fun and games. Until he turned 15 and started insisting we call him Sherlock. Mummy thought it was cute. She ignored his fantasies. She allowed him to walk around in a deerstalker cap, with a magnifying glass in his jacket. He started college last year but…” 

“It’s all right, Mycroft,” I told him five years ago. The older Holmes brother stood stiffly, with his shoulders jutting out, his face a mask of bravery and strength. His forehead was wrinkled, lips puckered, and his eyes damp. He had an umbrella hooked over his right arm.

“Call me Mike,” he insisted. I offered him a tissue. He declined, grabbing a handkerchief from his breast pocket instead. “He likes to listen to a police scanner and then show up at crime scenes. Offering to help. My brother has been arrested five times. At first, they’d let him go with a warning but now he thinks he’s consulting for the police!” It was 2010 and the patient had been referred to me after being evaluated at St. Bart’s hospital. William sat in my office, perched in the chair as though he were hatching an egg. His fingers were tented and pressed up to his chin. Mycroft—Mike—and I stood in the lobby. From here we could see a handful of patients milling about. Two middle aged men sat playing checkers. One was staring at the wall across from him, with a thin strand of drool hanging off his lower lip. The other man was obsessively lining up and adjusting the position of his pieces. 

“You moved it!” the staring man groaned. 

“I’m not moving it, I’m fixing it,” the other one insisted. The elder Holmes brother stifled a sob. The other visible patients were lounging on sofas and in chairs. 

“It can be difficult at first, but a clinical setting can be very therapeutic. With a proper regiment of medication and talk therapy, your brother could gain a firm grasp on reality. He will never be a barrister or a surgeon, but he can lead a normal life. Would you like to come in with me? Say goodbye?” 

“Best not to,” he replied, turning away to wipe his eyes. “My brother fancies me a nemesis. If he sees us together, he’ll suspect you and I are in cahoots.” And with that Mike was off. I stepped into my office. William lifted his head lazily and yawned. 

“Good afternoon,” I exclaimed upon sitting down. Although I had his file and had met with his brother, I wanted to gauge his mental state. “So, Mr. Holmes, can you tell me what you are doing here?” He looked up at me, massive cheek bones on his slender face. He had a mop of thick, black, matted curls. There were dark circles under his eyes. The doctors at Bart’s reported he had been unable to sleep for two days before they sedated him. His toxicology screening came back positive for cocaine, methamphetamines, heroin, and MDMA. Drug abuse is common in patients with psychiatric disorders. They attempt to treat their symptoms with the drugs but often end up addicted. We would need to get him clean before we could get a proper diagnosis. 

“I’m undercover,” the thin man told me. “Investigating a murder.” He passed, eyes darting about the room. Sherlock jumped to his feet, standing on the chair. He jumped from it to a nearby leather sofa. He grabbed a book from one of my shelves and began reading. “What is that you’re are writing.” 

“Just some notes on the case,” I told him. It was true. This seemed to calm him a bit. Sherlock sat down. “Would you be willing to stay with a roommate? I have someone in mind I think you will get on well with. He might even help you investigate.” Giving him something to focus on while detoxing would help for now. Once we had him properly medicated and in therapy, he’d lose interest in the obviously fake case. Hopefully, he’d lose interest in his detective obsession altogether. 

Her checked himself in on a voluntary basis. His name just happened to be John Watson, and best of all he was a doctor. The problem with doctor Watson was his extreme temper. It turned most of the patients off. He had chased away three roommates in less than a month. All the patients avoided him. This was the exact opposite of what he needed. Watson wanted to help with the patients. He was accustomed to taking care of people. He said it gave him purpose. After the war, John had walled himself off from the world. His pain, and anger ran s deep he had even developed a psychosomatic limp. Mike told me Sherlock was anti-social, often rude. I hoped he would not pick up on Watson’s attempts at scaring him away. “Come along, if you’re investigating my hospital you will want to know how everything works.” 

I took him straight to room 221. The coincidences at this case were bizarre but nothing more than that. A coincidence. Dr. Watson was sitting in his room, staring at a blank blog page on his laptop. I had assigned him to chronicle the events of his days to help adjust to civilian life. At this point he had not written a single word. “John, I have a new patient to introduce you to. Dr. Watson meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.” The both shot me dirty looks. 

“You want me to mind some lunatic who thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes? Just because I’m a doctor? Or is he my responsibility because of the name thing?” John stood up and tried to limp out of the room. Holmes had other plans. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked. John spun around on his heels. 

“I’m sorry?” he replied. 

“You’re a solider,” Sherlock began before rattling off an impressively long list of details he’d observed in the first few seconds. Nearly all of them were correct.  
“Okay, that was actually…amazing,” John declared. Part of Sherlock’s problem as his massive intellect and his ability to observe details most people would never notice. He can gleam all sorts of knowledge about your personal life from the direction you parted your hair. Just like in the books. Mike says it was a mixture of natural gift and the obsession Sherlock shared with his mother.

“You really think so?” Holmes asked, his eyes lit up like electric neon. John nodded. “That’s not what people usually say.” 

“What do they say?” John asked. He draped his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder and turned him away from me. He gave me a quick nod as if to say, I’ve got it from here. 

“Piss off,” Sherlock replied. They both burst into a fit of giggles. I took a few steps back but stayed close by to finish up on the intake paperwork. I stood around the corner at the nurses’ station, so I could see them, but they could not see me. “What are you doing in a place like this?” John sighed but began to lead Sherlock in a tour of the ward. He walked perfectly, leaving his cane in the room. It was a massive breakthrough.

“We can stop by the canteen for something to eat if you like,” John offered. “Hungry?” Sherlock turned and smiled at him. I was expecting him to say no. The drugs had removed his appetite. On top of that, he was a thin young man who ate infrequently when in a naturally frenzied state of mind. Dr. Watson also neglected his dietary needs, for his own reasons. 'What's the point?' he'd asked me on numerous occasions when reminded it was meal time.

“Starving,” Sherlock replied. The two of them ended up being a perfect fit for each other. They became fast friends. Sherlock pushed John to be kinder, ore patient, and gave his friend a purpose. John was able to draw Sherlock out of his fantasies. They played board and card games, watched television, talked, and even attended art therapy together. Within nine weeks, both men were ready to be released. I made it conditional they share a flat until both young men were fully recovered. 

xxxxxx 

Two years later, Watson and Holmes p>were assaulted on their way home from the cinema. A young heroin addict named Richard Brooks attempted to steal their wallets. John was stabbed and bled to death. William nearly died himself. After the murder, he retreated into the fantasies once again. And now it was my job to not only treat him but to find a way to replace his dead soulmate.


End file.
